


The Years, the Moment

by fish_in_fridge



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All narrations are from Turgon's POV, Gen, Lots of Angst, Whose knowledge of contemporary events and perception of Maeglin's mind are not perfect, and character deaths, you are warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fish_in_fridge/pseuds/fish_in_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few snapshots of Turukáno, also known as Turgon, a son, a brother, a husband, a widower, a father, an uncle, a lord, a King, a commander, a Noldo, from Alqualondë, to Ondolindë (Gondolin).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1495 Y.T.

**Author's Note:**

> Initially planned as one-shot, the story grows longer than expected, and I have decided to upload it section by section.
> 
> All chapter titles indicate years when events recorded in the chapter take place. Some recall canonical events, while others are gap-fillers only work in the setting of this story.
> 
> A list of names will be provided at the end of the story, which means end of the last chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading, review and kudos.

He knew much was amiss long before Alqualondë came into his sight.

Noise travelled faster than vision, scent travelled faster than noise, and whatever smell that permeated the air was so blunt, so raw, and so smouldering, almost made him suffocate.

Nolofinwë, the leader of their host, believed the people of Noldor were under attack, and called for his followers to lend whatever strength he could to their aid. But not before a specific order was given to his second son.

“No, you stay, Turu. It would be troubling to your babe if anything ill fall on you. And I need you to keep an eye on the women, the young, all those who lack a weapon and a shield. And keep an eye on my young Arakáno and my Irissë: don’t let them do anything rash. Especially Irissë. ” 

And so Turukáno remained, along with all those placed under his charge, while others disappeared into a horizon that seemed even dimmer than before. Failing in reaching his father and elder brother with osanwë, Turukáno resigned himself to Arakáno’s clenched fists, Irissë’s impatient stomps, Elenwë’s anxious mumbling of “It’s madness. What if he’s mistaken?”, and Itarillë’s expressionless face.

It was that last one that worried him most.

The infant girl in his arms didn’t make a sound. And her usually brilliant eyes were so unfocused that it gave her a look that one would not associate with a kid. Yet there she was, not listening, not looking, nor responding to his brushes against her soul, even as he knew she was not slumbering, and she was as perceptive as ever.

It didn’t occur to him how very quiet it was when the faraway chaos faded, till Itarillë suddenly stirred and let out a faint shriek. The shriek, whose likeness Turukáno had never heard before, took him aback, and nearly drove his wife half mad.

There must be more that is amiss than I thought possible, than I even dared to imagine...

It felt like years before his Elven eyes caught the sight of Nolofinwë and Findëkáno, among many else, their braids loose, their outfit messy, their expressions hollow. Blood had dampened their cloaks; blood was crisscrossing the carved patterns in their sets of armour; blood was dripping from their unsheathed blades.

No word was exchanged. All was explained.


	2. 1500 Y. T.

He had begun to believe he had got used to ice, to snow, to ever rampaging storms and blizzards, and to the occasional silences when the winds were not howling. To the thundering sounds of ice cracking and exploding, and the splashes of icy undercurrents that swallowed another hapless soul. To the dwindling of the host. To weariness, to numbness, and to despair. To a despair that was prolonged to an eternity.

He had even begun to believe that he could walk on the frozen realm of wasteness till the end of Arda, or that he wouldn’t care to protest if the deceptive ice of Helcaraxë should decide on setting a trap for him.

Yet it never once occurred to him that he should lose his beloved wife to the ruthless hell of ice.

_No, Elenwë, no._

But there she was, chilled to the bone, with different layers of fabrics all frozen onto her skin, and sickly blonde hair too brittle to suffer any touch. All the difficult sounds she tried to make with her throat and her nose were lost to the bumping blocks of ice and the roaring wind.

_Don’t say anything. I’m here. I’m here with you, as I will ever be. Don’t, don’t leave._

He took her close in his arms, holding her fast, to give her whatever warmth he still had, to lend her as much spirit of his as he could offer, and to steady himself, to keep himself from raging, or howling, or falling.

_Itarillë is fine. She is not hurt. And I’m fine. Be fine for us, please. Be safe, be whole. Don’t leave._

He called to her thousands of times in osanwë, and made her thousands of promises, thousands of desperate times that he didn’t care whether he could fulfill. If he blurted out any of them, it was not within his knowledge.

_We can go home. Yes, home, together. Walk all the way back, if Aman is the place for your healing. I will carry you, if you can’t walk. Carry you and Itarillë together. We go home._

Even as he cried so, he knew it to be impossible. He had lost count of time on the ice, and track of the path they had tread. All that rushed to his mind, to his senses, and to his whole existence, was the desire to keep her alive. Yet deep down, he knew it was beyond his power. He didn’t even need to look for the remainder of her failing fëa to know it.

He had failed her.

 _Don’t... worry... about me... love... You can... go on... I... see... the land. Go there with... Itarillë ... and... take a look... for me..._ Such were her last words that reached him, Faint, yet steady.

He buried his face in her bosom as her spirit faded, and didn’t raise it till he was eventually pulled to his feet. His feet didn’t feel anything, nor did his knees, his arms, or his hands. No weight, nor lightness. He searched blindly where she had last set her last gaze on, but no shape of solidity came into his sore, blurry vision.


	3. 1 F. A.

Elenwë proved right.

It was only a matter of weeks before they set foot on Endórë, where Nolofinwë’s horn was sounded, and the silver and blue standard of his House unfurled. What accompanied the belated excitement of the host was a light new to them, white and clear...

And the ghastly scream of Moringotto undying in the valley close to the shores, scaring them and challenging them...

And the nastiest-looking beings Turukáno had ever set eyes on, the foul minions of Moringotto the Black Foe...

And more bloodshed, more fallen kinsmen...

Arakáno, his youngest brother, was the first to charge at their enemies, the first to strike a blow, and among the first to take wounds, the first to perish.

Many would later praise his act as bravery, yet Turukáno saw only a surge of boyish excitement which translated into recklessness, and that was all it took to bring Arakáno to his doom. Right now, the tallest of Nolofinwë’s children was settled in his father’s laps, receiving last caresses in his extended hands from his brothers, while their father meticulously wiped steins of blood and dirt from the barely-grown youngster’s forehead and cheeks.

Some time later, another light source, brighter and more forceful, rose high into the sky, repelling both the ungainly foes on the land and the darkness that had surrounded the earth for way too long. Many tried to see this as a good sign.

Turukáno wished he could share their uplifted spirit.


	4. 54 F. A.

“When are we moving?” asked Irissë briskly.

“Yea... Wait, Irissë, why do you speak of moving? Where does such idea come from?” rebuked Turukáno, obviously caught unawares. The dream city had been floating in his mind’s eye day and night, steadily taking a concrete shape with details blooming, flourishing and growing vivid hour by hour (or so it seemed to him); but the Lord of Nevrast had not taken that up to anyone yet - not to his father, not to Findëkáno, not even to Findaráto, whom he suspected also had some issue clouding his mind.

Irissë, however, was simply unimpressed by her brother’s counter; she just rolled her eyes.

“You are making maps,” replied her in a flat tone, though the voice in her osanwë hinted a challenge: _if you believe you could truly hide matters from me, Turukáno, you are no brother of mine._

“Then you found the drawings?” Turukáno, now taking more interest in this conversation, dropped what he had been studying and turned to face his sister. He tried to sound as matter-of-factly as he could. “Now, Irissë, if you have examined them closely, you can easily tell that they are just a few sketches of Tirion, together with some images of Oromë’s forest and Yavanna’s orchid, that I intend to polish and set colours on: gifts for Itarillë, actually; you know she doesn’t have a full memory of our beautiful homeland - grievous harm has been done to her memory by the Darkening, the clamourous night near Alqualondë, and the chill of Helcaraxë...” He still could not give voice to what weighed too much on his own soul.

“If these are indeed gifts for our sweet Itarillë, brother, then they are ill-made, full of mistakes; and you are not the one to pass erroneous message on to your lovely daughter.” Irissë made her point in a drawl, which indicated she was not amused. “Could you explain to me why, in your pictures, does the mountains of Pelóri always encircle the hill of Túna from all directions?”

 _What is that place?_ Asked Irissë in mind-talk.

“Fine. That is somewhere I imagined, when my mind got carried away,” Turukáno surrendered. _Somewhere I dreamed, and am still dreaming of._

“Just so?” _Show me; make me see it; take me there._

“Why do you insist it has to exist on this earth?” ventured Turukáno. _I can’t - a dream is a dream._

He didn’t want to bring to her how it occurred to him as more than just a dream, when he could not shake off his own feels of bewilderment just yet. But that dream unfolded itself more brilliant in colour than all the dreams he had ever dreamed, more solid in texture, more resonating in sound, more subtle in scent, and more purposeful in the progress of dream events. It was the last quality which haunted his thinking most - even the distinct voice of Vala Ulmo didn’t surpass it in impressiveness: this was most certainly a mission of divinity, and for that reason he had better follow each word of the Lord of Waters’ instruction.

“Otherwise you wouldn’t have put so much thought, so much fëa, into those drawing. Even though you goes into your inner world often enough. They are plans, meant to be carried out. And I want to see them carried out, even carry them out myself.” Now Irissë’s tone changed into one of uttermost earnestness. How much has she suspected?

“You say they are plans, but what plans they are, Irissë?” asked Turukáno cautiously, “what do you intend to carry out?”

“Why, the making of a city, which recalls the image of White Tirion upon Túna, but is different than Tirion, for it is brand new, young and thriving. It shall bear more names than one, each name impressing the folk residing in it of its life and beauty than the last one,” Irissë explained herself in such phrasing that couldn’t help bring a smile to his brother.

_Well-spoken, little sister. You make me desire to move into that city in no time._

“That is most charming. Nonetheless, while the landscape I drew is indeed here located in Endórë, made of earth, rock, water, grass and wood, as in time you will behold with your own eyes,” said Turukáno, “but where the city stands, is just an ordinary-looking crown of a steep hill beneath sunlight and clouds, untouched by the hands of the Eldar or other creatures. What I envisioned shall not come into being for a long time.”

“Not that long, my brother,” laughed Irissë heartily, “I can tell there is an urge in your heart to see the city completed and embellished soon. And even if you do not hurry, I will not abide by your sluggishness - I long to move about, to explore the inner regions of this landmass, and the sound of surging waves washing against the cliff beneath our castle is growing tedious. But your new city shall be full of songs, and I am giving all ears to their melody.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 50 F. A., Vala Ulmo shew Turgon and Finrod visions of hidden places in the form of a dream, and Turgon discovered the valley of Tumladen in 53 F. A., which he envisioned a fine site for his future city; he relocated his people of Nevrast to Tumladen in 64 F. A., and the construction of Goldolin completed in 116 F. A.
> 
> Hence I choose 54 F. A. as the year this dialogue between Turgon and Aredhel takes place.


	5. 316 F. A.

As soon as Irissë brought up her proposal, Turukáno knew a quarrel was in order.

Yet he never expected it should turn out so violent, so hurtful. He had tried to reason with her as a dutiful guardian would do, to coax her as a doting brother would do, even to threaten her with removal of several privileges that were her favourite, which could only be the last resort of a harsh king; none of these approaches worked with Irissë, of course.

Irissë truly knew him well enough after all, which was why she had so much confidence in her proposal. She had seen to it that he would never take up severe punishment against her, no matter how much he disapproved of her wayward acts. For countless times he had accused her of being petulant, yet it had always been her petulance that won the contest of will. Every single time it did.

Therefore, it should really had been he who had better think better before losing his temper and starting yelling, as Turukáno later reflected over the situation. Yet yell he did at that moment, and the force he let out in those harsh words left a soreness in his throat, worsened by their echoes travelling from wall to wall.

“You are a high lady of Ondolindë, and I thought you were proud of that!”

She was touched by it, he could tell, for she had dropped her previous mask of nonchalance, and her crossed arms dropped to the sides of her body while fists clenched beside her hips.

“Of that I certainly am,” came her defiant answer, ten seconds later, “but of your stupid decree, not at all.” Here came a pause, before her high-pitched voice resumed, “I am your sister and not your servant, and beyond your bounds I will go as seems good to me. King or no, you will not stop me from visiting my best friends.” Another halt, after which her tone dropped to a barely audible hiss, which sounded no less peeved than a roar, “Even if you have no desire to see them ever again till the end of Time.”

There, she got him. The law of Ondolindë, the obligation of maintaining secret the city’s location, the concerns for the royal lady’s safety, those were not the only reasons, not even the primary reasons, why Turukáno forbade her outbound journey. This decision of his came mostly out of emotion, rather than reason. An indignation he had felt over the treason of the House of Fëanáro, a phantom chill of Helcaraxë that dwelt in his inner soul and became part of him, and a pang of grief for the loss of his wife which turned into hatred for those who caused such loss, all those sentiments sowed a stubborn grudge against the sons of Fëanáro, and a desire to have no dealings with them.

At times Turukáno would become sick of this grudge, and most of the time he would just keep his emotions at bay and let any grudge be still; yet he would also find every reason that worked for its defense on the occasions when he felt provoked, or challenged, or exasperated enough.

Such as right now.

“...were it up to Findëkáno, no ban would be issued at all restricting my coming and going. He would only be pleased with me when I resumed the tie of friendship with our cousins...” Irissë was still ranting about the injustice she believed he was doing her, nonetheless, drawing a comparison with Findëkáno’s probable reaction to prove her point.

_Why, dearest Irissë, do you utter no complaint regarding the injustice that has been done upon us by the very cousins as you mentioned?_

As Turukáno thought so, the image of conflagration returned to his sight, treacherously red against a black canopy of the sky; the images of grey chips of gnawing ice, indigo flows of salty water and hazy blankets of snow carried by sweeping blizzards returned as well, sending goosebumps to the back of his neck even though he was standing close to the hearth in his solar.

Why could anyone ever ignore such treason and some more, when speaking of friendship and tie?

Why does Irissë always speak of Turkafinwë and Curufinwë as though they were the same hunting mates of hers in those untroubled old days in Valinor, as though no lies and half-truths, no treason, no abandonment, exactly nothing at all had breached the bond between them?

Why did Findëkáno set out in search for Nelyafinwë, without even knowing if he could live to see the feat done?

These were the questions Turukáno could find answer to. As well, he had no desire for their answer. He simply wished to be let alone, with Itarillë, and Irissë, and the faithful lords of his own household, in Ondolindë, where shadows and pains do not affect them. Forever.

And on this very evening, he once again found he dearly wished to be rid of any talk that involved what he intended to avoid.

“You presume too much, Lady Irissë. It is I, not Findëkáno, who is responsible to this city and all its regulations and bans. You do well keep that in mind,” he finally took up the persona of a King, a thing he rarely did when conversing privately with his kin, let alone doing that twice in a single day. Yet his voice turned out less commanding and more tired than he expected. He sighed before articulating his last order. “Now you are dismissed.”

Irissë certainly didn’t curtsy as she retreated, nor did she bid him a good night. Light-footed as she was, Turukáno thought he did hear her tramping all the way to her chambers.

_You are impossible, little sister, are you not?_

No reply from her osanwë, nor did he really expect one. He should have known he was fighting a losing battle, after all.

So he did relent, shortly before Irissë managed to packed her bag and saddled her palfrey, as though she were ready to gallop out of all the gates of Ondolindë disregarding any who might stop her. He granted her leave to visit Hísilómë where their father and elder brother lived and ruled, using lame excuse such as “It’s past time they should learn we are dwelling happily in a safe realm.” He also asked for her word not to stray from her set route among many other requirements, and made meticulous instructions to her guards as well as tips on how to watch over the White Lady on the road.

Yet Turukáno still couldn’t quite overcome his doubts concerning this journey when Irissë’s mount trotted across the first arched gate of the Hidden City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel is said to be bored of living in Gondolin after residing there for two hundred years, and I am taking that number literally.


	6. 400 F. A.

Turukáno was sitting at the sickbed in Irissë’s favourite chamber, holding his sister’s hand.

His sister was not doing well. Her forehead was feverish while her limb was icy to touch; her cheeks were scarlet while she neck and wrist pale; she pulse were drumming against her translucent skin, while her breath was more often caught in her throat than not. Red-dark fluid was still oozing out of the wound in her chest, smelling like decay. And decay it indeed was, caused by a poison that Ondolindë had no knowledge of.

All the healers and their apprentice maids were doing what they could to bring the King’s sister to a path to life, to recovery. Their efforts were not well repaid, Turukáno could tell. Itarillë had lent her aunt the green gem Elessar, into which was infilled a life-power by the gifted craftsman Enerdhil, so that the patient might clutch it to her bosom where pains bothered her worst; yet neither the potence of the gem or the good will of Itarillë was bestowing any favour on Irissë’s waning life.

Turukáno refused to admit her life was waning.

She had been so exuberant, her life-fire glowing so brilliantly, on that very morning, when she surprised this city by her sudden return, threw herself into her brother’s embrace upon dismounting, drained three goblets of wine the royal cup-bearers presented her, and made a host of comments and jests concerning every triviality of Ondolindë.

“Why this long face, Turu? It doesn’t even become you!” She had laughed as she pulled at his cheek.

“Still having no idea how to lace your boots, Itarillë? Well, my fault. If I couldn’t manage to show you the right way to put your boots on, no one could,” she had giggled as she slightly lifted Itarillë’s hem to see the younger lady’s bare feet.

“You must be paying those are tending those trees for you richly, Turu. Why, they’re shining all the more all the more gloriously since I last saw them!” She stroked the metal bark of Belthil, and for a moment the tender light of silver was caught by her slender white fingers and travelled along her vain, and her artless smile had been a most splendid one that he remembered.

It had been hard to imagine her as a mother, even though she had already become one. A son she had, dark in hair and pale in skin, whom she named Lómion.

“Don’t worry about that one, Turu. He just needs some time to adjust to the sight of Gondolin, though I am still wondering why. I thought he’s known it well enough - hearing tales about it for all his life. Never bored of such tales, he is.” At that she had burst into chuckles, though her son had remained very quiet at her statement, neither confirming nor denying the truth of it.

There was an unfathomable look in Lómion’s eyes; Irissë was obviously aware of that, though she had long been used to it.

“I had played with the thought about make a long visit in the east, to be honest, but Lómion was dying to see Gondolin, what a little rascal. So here we are. As well, I am missing the sun and breeze of Gondolin more than I believed I would.” She had winked mischievously at this, but Turukáno could tell there was something more than what she brought up in her words.

She seemed very guarded when he tried to learn more about the past eighty-four years she lived, for one. “Oh, you have no idea,” was the only answer she came up with when Irissë inquired her of her marriage.

“I am going to stay as long as Lómion is willing to remain, and I assure you, Turu, my little rascal is not going to tire of your city any time soon. Let him befriend Enerdhil, or maybe Rōka, and your will most certainly keep us up here long. It may be great gesture of an uncle’s affection if my King would like to show him a few crafts of yours, but mind it, his skill with metal and ore has much surpassed yours already,” Irissë had said in a light tone, “but bind him not to Ondolindë when his heart seeks Nan Elmoth once again. For the time being, worry not about my husband, for Eöl has no knowledge of the whereabouts of Lómion and me, nor where to seek the entrance to Gar Thurion. Mayhaps we can even give him a big surprise when we eventually visit again the misty Valley of the Starry Pool.”

Yet in the end it was she and Lómion and all the folks of Ondolindë that were surprised, and shocked, and provoked into indignation. Furious and defiant words were exchanged, demands were put forward and rejected either directly or indirectly, a poisoned javelin was darted, and a mother strode forward to shield her son from the fatal strike.

The culprit was captured and chained on the site of his crime, but the King had not the heart to see to his punishment. Not just yet. Turukáno had a sister to attend to. He kept Irissë company all the night, for what seemed the longest night ever since he had seen the moon glittering in the sky amid stars for the first time.

All this time he set his fëa wide awake, listening to the broken sentences his sister uttered and responding to the inconsistent thoughts in her mind. She didn’t whine, most certainly, nor did she complain about the pains the poisonous wound had been causing her. But she expressed she wished to have made a better sister to him than what she now became, and that she was sorry not able to show Lómion around Ondolindë herself, or keep any longer company with everyone; she asked Turukáno to forgive the guards who had lost her (which he long had done), besought him to keep an eye on her child, and begged him to not to be mad at Eöl, but give him permit to leave the city.

Of all the dying requests Irissë made, the last one she insisted most unrelentingly. Every time she woke from a state of half consciousness that a pang of pain had thrown her into, she began to repeat that pleading most earnestly as she struggled with her heavy lids to look him in the eyes, and he could but brush her fëa with his own, in a gesture that could only be interpreted as a nod.

Before the day broke Irissë passed away, leaving an empty hröa in her bed. Gathered at her chamber were her brother and her niece, her loyal maids and her favourite companions in riding and adventures. Oddly her son opted not to remain with her in her last living moment. Though Turukáno would not say the boy made a bad decision.

In daylight Eöl was given the permit to leave Ondolindë, in the fashion of being flung out of it by the King’s guards. Turukáno did not consider he had broken his word with Irissë. He was not even mad at the dark elf; he had sanely judged the crime the latter had committed, and had passed the sentence accordingly, and the execution was part of that sentence. Though he did admit he was wroth.

The trial closed with barely any disagreement, actually. Itarillë looked unsettled, while Lómion kept wearing a passive persona, and all the others concurred with the King’s decision. Eöl rioted, as anticipated. He cursed everything and everyone, his own son included, which troubled and disgusted Turukáno to no end; but other than that, Turukáno had to admit he didn’t die a coward’s death. No shriek pierced the air in the valley, only a dull thud, barely audible to Elven-ears, travelled lazily up from the root of the white city wall.

The whole procedural left Turukáno an inexplicable feel of flatness, and dizziness. For quite a long time he was unable to gather his thoughts, and when his thoughts did return, they were not the ones he wanted to dwell upon.

_Will Irissë thank me for avenging her death, or will she never forgive me for killing her husband?_

_Will Lómion thank me for ridding him of an unworthy father, or will he hate me for murdering the one who sired him?_

Turukáno shuddered at the word “murder”. He had never thought himself capable of such unnatural act - thought the notion associated only with those who dared any indecency in their covet for the Silmarils, or the cruel, unreasonable beings such as Eöl. Yet “murder” somehow fitted, here and now. Had he not willfully ordered death of a member of the Eldarin kindred just now?

 _Does it make me a kinslayer as well?_ Turukáno grimaced. He had no answer for this.

_Vala Námo probably has the answer, though it is not like I shall learn it here and now. As well. I only wish he show mercy to my sister, as I have prayed the same for my wife and my brother..._


	7. 420 F. A

Maeglin begged his private audience this day.

 _About time_ , thought Turukáno.

Twenty years under the sun had passed since the fateful night and day that orphaned his only nephew; Turukáno had yet to tell how that actually affected the young elf. Lordship, retinue and vassals were granted the newly-made head of the people of Moles, and with them also went affectionate words and wise guidance, yet Maeglin (as Turukáno had learned to call him, since that latter had claimed he was no longer a child of twilight in the bright cityscape of Gondolin) seemed not impressed at all, nor interested. The White Lady’s son kept mostly to himself, his only attachment being smithcraft and mining.

For some curious reason, Maeglin was as unlike his mother in temperament as he resembled her in looks, sharing her rich curls and her fair complexion. As a result, Turukáno couldn’t but feel a sharp pang whenever he caught sight of the lone, brooding figure of his nephew, wishing whole-heartedly that the young one would settle down and feel at home. Which Maeglin had not managed, yet.

The only sort-of friend Maeglin had made in these two decades was his cousin Itarillë. For a number of years she took him in, treating him as a little brother she never had the chance to have. Yet lately she seemed to be keeping him at an arm’s length.

Which did not suit Turukáno well.

For he had been wanting to cherish the boy as much as he would a son; Maeglin had never let him to. The boy’s mind was defensive, and inscrutable, and very much closed; the closest thing to reaching out to his fëa that was within Turukáno’s ability, was detecting his mood swings beneath a facade of apathy.

Turukáno had pondered on whether he should talk with Itarillë about it, yet he eventually decided against it. He knew his daughter to be wise; she could most certainly make her own judgment as befitting her rank and character.

Keeping irrelevant thoughts at bay and concentrating on what he judged Maeglin would want to discuss with him, Turukáno received his nephew in his solar.

The conversation didn’t go at all along any possible paths he had imagined.

Honestly, he wouldn’t be more shocked if his nephew had landed a blade in his throat.

For Maeglin promptly asked for the hand of Itarillë as soon as he was admitted into the chamber.

The master of the room was obviously at a loss how to address that, as a huge cluster of reactions were taking vague shapes in his head. While it sounded like wild exaggeration if one claimed that, in some split second, Turukáno was as tempted to show the audacious youngster the way out of his solar by window, as to chase all the way to the Halls of Mandos to question his late sister of her son’s education, or lack thereof, truth was not far from such statement.

Yet, on belated afterthought, he couldn’t really blame Irissë for not teaching her Lómion of the Noldor’s laws and custom, for he himself had never brought up this subject to his own daughter. _The High Elves abide by laws by instinct, not by learning._

“What led you to... ss...such cl... p...proposal?” asked Turukáno in a hushed sputter, his voice eventually finding its way back to his lips as he swallowed a string of even more improper phrases. He had dearly wanted to interrogate if his nephew was serious, or even sober. But something in Maeglin’s eyes convinced him the boy was dead serious on this, and the older elf had to soften his tone to carry the dialogue on.

“My love for Lady Idril, my lord,” answered the younger elf defiantly. His moody defiance was much like that of Eöl’s, of which Turukáno had a distaste, but the King of Ondolindë knew better than to let his taste show, even, or especially, under this urgent circumstance.

“Love her no doubt you do, yet wed her you must not. Eldarin custom forbids this union, and thus you should never seek it,” said Turukáno.

He wished he had sounded reasonable, though it was not easy to explain what he had taken for granted, what all the Eldar had taken for granted. His nephew should have been no exception.

Yet apparently, the boy did not think the same way, “Why, uncle?”

Maeglin had locked his gaze right to Turukáno’s eyes, a clear sign that the youngster was displeased. _When Irissë was upset in such manner, she slammed her door at you and spurred her mount to a wild gallop; when her son was upset, he challenges you to an unsettling stare contest. The boy is named for his sharp glance, after all, and he knows it, and uses it to his advantage._

Turukáno sighed. He dearly wished to talk some reason into his nephew’s mind. Yet he doubted if he was ever good at it.

“Now that you are calling me uncle, child, the answer should have unfolded itself to you already. You and Idril are bonded by a tie of kinship already, my father’s blood flowing in the veins of both of you. Cherish that bond of blood-tie, and love Itarillë as one would his cousin, even his sister, if you find that idea more comforting. But do not court her, Maeglin. Don’t even try.”

Maeglin did not make a sound, even a sound of biting lip or swallowing, at this, nor did he take his sullen eyes off his uncle.

“And what we have said in this solar tonight is only between you and me. Do not bring this up to my daughter. It will only disturb her,” added Turukáno somewhat wearily, “Do you understand me, Maeglin?”

A prolonged silence fell between the two, before Maeglin jerked his head into a barely visible nod.

Turukáno was content with the young elf’s reaction, at least for now, therefore he opted not to push. The boy could benefit from more the lore and teaching that Ondolindë had to provide, and family ties and honourable friendship can also work to set his mind to the right track, one appropriate for a high lord of the White City. In time, the youngling would dismiss any ideas regarding this ridiculous pursuit.

Turukáno was willing to make as much effort as would be demanded to make this happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this chapter follows a dialogue that isn't taken from the canon, and probably stands only for this story, I guess a brief explanation may be appreciated:
> 
> Personally I think the Maeglin newly admitted to Gondolin is very different from the Maeglin who eventually betrayed Gondolin to Morgoth. He was far less sophisticated back then, and didn't yet harbour a desire to do harm to others, especially Tuor and Eärendil. He is not a one-dimensional villain, and the more villain part of him is IMO much associated with his capture by Morgoth's cronies. Two key elements remain throughout his stay in Gondolin, though: his desire for recognition, and his infatuation, which later turned into a possessive desire, for Idril.
> 
> Also the younger Maeglin probably wasn't as good at networking as what he became in The Fall of Gondolin (Salgant wasn't hanging around with him yet), and didn't pay as much attention to titles and ranks (for from his Nan Elmoth experience, they had meant nothing to him); he only began pursuing them when he became aware of what privilege they represented.
> 
> And very obviously, Turgon's counsel didn't quench Maeglin's thirst for Idril, if it didn't worsen it :(


	8. 456 F. A.

Turukáno had known it had been trying time on the other side of the Encircling Mountains, and the time of hardship began since last winter. The dark, smoggy skyscape of the northern direction had informed as much; even if that didn’t, the lack of Eagles circling around Tumladen would do the same.

Therefore when he caught a faraway sight of Sorontar, King of the Eagles, making for his Hidden City, the King of Ondolindë felt instantly a measure of relief. An Eagle in the sky was a good sign. Had to be. It could be no coincidence that the fuming smoke in the north appeared thinned a little at the same time.

Yet Manwe’s messenger carried with him the body of a fallen warrior. One who braved the infamous hammer of Moringotto’s at the very gate of Angamando. Nolofinwë. King Nolofinwë of the Noldor.

And father of Turukáno.

He looked terrible, Nolofinwë did. Bruised here and broken there. Breastplate askew, bracers shattered, and white cloak torn into stripes. All covered with blood. From Sorontar Turukáno learned the High King’s heroic single combat with the Dark Lord of Angamando, where the latter was wounded seven times and left with a lasting limp. Much of the narration, nonetheless, lost its meaning to Turukáno.

His father had always been strong, true, even mighty for all his life, a living definition of what lordship embodied in the eyes of his children. Yet nothing would now stop Turukáno from thinking of Nolofinwë as weary and vulnerable, when the late King lay still on the marble dais in the form of a corpse.

The idea felt so bizarre that Turukáno knew not how to respond to it, which was why he did not immediately sink to his knees, nor burst into tears. Though he did keel in vigil for his father, and wept silently as fresh soil was laid on top of Nolofinwë’s hearse. It felt weird that he had to bury his father in a city that the latter had never stepped in. Never even learned where to find it. Yet, on second thought, Ondolindë didn’t really make a very wrong resting place for one who had spent majority of his life in Tirion. Ondolindë, a miniature Tirion on a miniature Túna, with two miniature trees (though they were wrought of malleable metal instead of Valarin power), watched over by Valinorean Eagles.

The late King’s burial took place just a few feet away from the now blossom-covered grave of his daughter’s.

 _I never told him about Irissë._ Mused Turukáno, guilt stricken. Again.

For from Sorontar the King of Ondolindë learned of what had befallen on most of Beleriand: Ard-galen burnt to a desolation of gasping dust, the lush and lively Dothornion turned into dim and perilous Taur na Fuin, East Beleriend lost much of its ground from invasion through several passways, and Hithlum, the Hísilómë that Turukáno had been familiar with, would probably also be overrun with foes had the Dark Lord’s attack not been halted by Nolofinwë’s challenge to a duel.

_Too much loss, within the short span of a year..._

“Whenever next battle-call sounds, Ondolindë shall answer, and be ready to strike,” proclaimed Turukáno solemnly, “I will not tolerate the thought of sitting idle any more when the Enemy slaughters our kin and plights our kin’s lands.”

All the folks of Ondolindë engraved their King’s words in mind, for the next ten and six years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's apology:
> 
> There are a few place names, namely the lands that Noldorin princes held and lost, that I really wish to use their Quenya forms (as Quenya is Turgon's mind language), but have been too lazy to check. I am really sorry about this.


	9. 458 F. A.

Turukáno never expected visitors at this time, of all his years under anar; yet visitors did come, in the shape of two mortal youths, descending from eagle’s back.

He had long heard of the Secondborn pledging friendship with and entering the service of his late father, his brother and his cousins, and proving a steadfast ally to the Eldar’s long, unfinished cause to fight against the Evil. He had even heard one tale or two lauding their flamboyant spirit, their eagerness in learning, and their battle prowess. But this was the first time he met any of them, face to face.

Turukáno observed the two fair-haired boys from his dais as they dropped to a formal bow: they seemed to have received some lesson on Elvish etiquette, though practice must have been scarce; the brief greeting words shew their good command of Sindarin, in spite of a hoarseness that the King never heard before and couldn’t say he enjoyed; their limbs were nimble, but their movement lacked a natural fluidity that his kindred possessed. Turukáno was also surprised at the extent of youthfulness expressed by their souls and written on their face, which had not quite recovered from a look of bewilderment and awe at the grandeur and brightness of his city, for such juvenility did not fit at all with the big statures they had already grown into.

Turukáno didn’t say much in his reply, for his was not prepared to deliver any welcome speech. A silence, too rigid for his liking, fell, as all introductions were done and the Atani teenagers were ushered out of his grand hall, and was not broken till a feast was given in Hador Lórindol’s grandsons’ honour, and a few sips of Turukáno’s fragrant wine, sweetened for the youth, brought the lads out of their initial reserve.

A recount of the boys’ recent misadventure in orc hunting was the conversation starter, and a recollection of their previous life in Dor-lómin followed, which soon enough grew vivid as Turukáno’s lords began inquiring of details about the land they once saw, visited, or even dwelt. A history of the People of Marach, origin of the young men’s bloodline, was provided, and stories of Haleth’s clan, ancestors of their mother, were also recalled. After that came tales and anecdotes about their, and their forebears’ encountering with the Eldar, which extended to a few legendary narrations of King Fingon and the late King Fingolfin, which Húrin claimed recounted deeds of old and only came to the young brothers’ ears through many a telling, while the host of the feast had to correct the erroneous and weigh down the exaggerated parts. In the end, when the younger brother Huor became drunken enough, he started praising the Hidden City of Ondolindë all over again, with the strangest metaphors Turukáno had ever lent ears to, and the residents along with that, and his unexpected excitement at eventually seeing Elves growing hair of a hue similar to his own, eyeing Lady Itarillë sitting at the King’s right, and Lord Laurefindil ranking high among Turukáno’s counselors.

Turukáno attempted to satiate the boy’s curiosity by mentioning a golden-haired Elven kindred who remained in the Blessed Realm, and explained the blonde locks of his beloved daughter came from her Vanyarin mother.

“The Queen of Ondolindë? But she’s not here,” asked Huor, “What happened to her?”

Queen of Ondolindë... Queen Elenwë, how odd that sounds. Elenwë... Elenwë... She had always been Elenwë, just Elenwë, though her marriage to him earned her a “Lady” before her name. Yet that formal style of addressing never made its place to their family life, to his heart. She had always just been Elenwë for him, when they chased each other in the lush greens of Valmar, or joined hands in their bliss of wedding, or drifted their minds away from the court sessions of Tirion to rejoin each other in the secret alcove of their joint fëar... Elenwë, that was what she was, his love, his wife...

“Her name was Elenwë,” murmured Turukáno.

There must have been something heavy in his tone, for Huor and Húrin promptly dropped the topic, and did not bring it up throughout their sojourn in his city.

Which lasted well neigh a year.

During which the young ones had made their best to be useful while enjoying their stay, training the ways of swords, axes and bows with the refined guards of the King’s, and studying lore, songs and the tongue of Quenya with learned scholars from renowned houses. They were honoured guests of the King and his daughter, and frequent visitors of the lodgings of important figures of the City. Indeed, Laurefindil enjoyed taking the boys to lengthy riding and spurring them to a race; Akaldamor gladdened them by showing off his unparalleled skills with his singing bow and curved sword; Salakanto kept the boys’ bellies full of honeyed pastry and mead, while his own weight soared; Itarillë all but spoiled the younglings, as was her wont, and led her father into doing the same. Only Maeglin didn’t not set out to befriend them, but avoided them almost completely, spending more of his free time in the mines or his forge, and always appeared sullen when his presence was required. Turukáno wished his nephew didn’t have to act with such detach, though the children of Hador’s clan seemed not to mind.

Even so, the Atani brothers expressed a wish to return to their kinsmen as the year drew to its close.

“Homesick already?” asked the King.

“It’s about time we returned to our lord father, my King,” came the unanimous reply.

Turukáno nodded absent-mindedly. “Know that I have a decree long made, banning all who entered my boundary from leaving, to keep this place hidden from unfriendly eyes and unwanted attention, as advised by Vala Ulmo. For over two hundred years, the decree was broken only once, and grief followed that one rule-breaking. With you, nonetheless, I have set my mind to make an exception, for my wisdom counsels such, and my heart agrees with your feeling. Fine children you are, and men of your words, yet I still wish to hear you swear this oath, to make no mention of the place you tarried in, and the name of the company you kept, to all those your hearts hold dear outside this valley.”

This oath they swore, and they proposed more promises of friendship, loyalty and service, offered by themselves, their clansmen and their descendants. At those Turukáno waved his hand, saying all should be determined only when such time came. “For now, the oath of secrecy shall suffice, and eagles shall come and bear you home.”

The Atani nodded. The younger lad opened his mouth as if to say something, though no sound came as he decided against speaking about it.

Turukáno encouraged Huor to speak his mind.

“It would sound weird to say that, my King, but don’t miss us too badly, for we are to return to our father Galdor, who serves your brother King Findëkáno; there is naught to worry, for Hísilómë and its folk, for King Fingon once defeated a fire drake, among other countless foes, and the men of Hador Lórindol are hard-worn as well.” There was a guileless confidence in the boy’s tone, which Turukáno quite envied somehow, in a good way.

“Do serve my brother faithfully, young ones, as I cannot join my force with his just yet, and the lands of Beleriend are no longer so safe and untainted as they once were. Vigilance is much needed in these restless days, and strength, and stoutness of heart, in Hísilómë and all the rest of Endórë.”

Húrin nodded with a grave expression, while Huor pondered how to answer the King’s words.

“But soon will you return to your homeplace. I may as well advise you to rejoice, Húrin and Huor son of Galdor,” Turukáno offered them each a pat on the shoulder.

“You sound lonely, King Turukáno. Is it because you are homesick as well?”

Turukáno was much tempted to nod, yet he shook the sentiment off determinedly. “Nearly half of the folk of Ondolindë, myself included, have bidden farewell to a homeworld that is rejected to us, ever again. Homesickness is what we cannot afford, and do not abide.”

That was what he had been repeating to himself for all these years, again and again, yet even now he could not tell whether he had convinced himself. Young Húrin and Huor were studying his face as closely as mortal beings could, and thankfully, they didn’t cast doubt to the sincerity of his statement. 

“What about the rest of you?”

“For them, many have come to know only one home,” replied the King, not without pride and affection, “which is Ondolindë.”


	10. 472 F. A.

The battle was lost. So fast and so utterly lost. Before he saw it coming.

Curious. It seemed like just minutes, instead of days, had passed since he first echoed “The night is passing!” to his brother’s “The day has come!”, and the bright ranks of the Eldar and Atani wrapped the field of Anfauglith in proximity to victory, light of the Sun caught in their long swords and armour sets. But now, Turukáno’s host were on their retreat down Sirion back to Ondolindë, blood, smoke, mire, and death close behind them, as well as a pertinacious mortal call for the Day that shall come again.

In dead silence Turukáno marched his army back towards their hidden valley, trying not to recall what had come to pass since that promising day he had set out with great hope from the same valley. Not that it was hard, to him, for his mind was strangely calm, and clear of all emotions. No grief haunted him, not yet, neither did the pressing need for vengeance. Though he dared not sleep, not even close his eyes for whatever short moment, lest nightmares of those five days should relive his battle-worn mind.

He had yet to shed his first tear for his brother Findëkáno. _When tears come, they will come in streams, in falls, in rivers…_ But at this moment, his eyes were as dry as a draught, and his state of mind was faring no better. _I don’t even remember the last words I actually shared with Findëkáno, the ones that made sense, not battle cries or anything as vague as those._

And Elvish memory was said to be flawless. _So much for sayings…_

The silence was held till the Encircling Mountains were behind them and the City of Ondolindë was right ahead, perfect as ever and untouched by wars and sorrows. At the sight of their home, many uttered a cry, or sigh, of relief. _In this place lives the last hope of the Eldar, and while Gondolin stands Morgoth shall still know fear in his heart; that is well said enough, my wise and steadfast Húrin._ And if Turukáno had been concerned of the ill prospect of his City being discovered and the dire consequences that should come after, now his worries were at better ease, as well.

He wished Ondolindë would stand thus forever, graceful and beautiful, and free from tears and wear, and he would see to its peace and prosperity if his own death should be the price of its defense. But firstly, Turukáno wanted to ensure no battle should ever encroach the flowery lands of Tumladen, nor should his people be stricken by loss and grief from outside their stronghold ever again.

By the time the King of Ondolindë approached the Gate of Steel, he was approached by his nephew the Lord of Mole.

“My lord, you are High King of the Noldor now,” said the younger elf with impeccable display of reverence.

Yet the words drummed against Turukáno’s ears with a sore pounding. T _hat is my father, or my brother; that is not me._ Though the only word that managed to come out of his throat was “Yes?”

“You will summon everyone – your kinsmen and their followers – here, and accept their oaths of fealty and service, won’t you? As is expected for the High King,” answered Maeglin, more anxious than what was his wont.

_The High King is dead. We have just lost our High King. I am but King of Ondolindë, a City wrought in secrecy and for secrecy, and the people of Ondolindë, those that are called Gondolindrim by folk dwelling outside the Encircling Mountains, are the only people I lord over. More I cannot claim for myself, for more I cannot defend and keep safe._

Turukáno did not see where Maeglin’s newly-developed obsession with titles and styles came from, but he was irked by it already. With hint of irritation in his voice, he replied, “High King or no, do you think it makes a difference now, for the Noldor?”

The younger lord said nothing.

“Come now, child. We are home,” now said Turukáno in a pacifying tone. He was not entirely certain who it was that he needed to calm and pacify.


	11. 501 F. A.

Itarillë made clear her desire to wed Tuor.

Had the sentence come from any other lips, Turukáno would have been unsettled, to say the least. And there had been enough matters to unease Turukáno’s mind, most remarkable of which was his recent rejection of Húrin’s re-entry to his City, a curt, selfish decision begotten by the fear and suspicion that once darkened his mind, not by love and wisdom. He had come to be ashamed of the decision in no time, and was still regretting its making who the mortal warrior was lost.

Yet the marriage proposal had come from his daughter’s lips, and Turukáno knew not what to feel. He was not exactly displeased, yet neither was he relaxed. _Say that I’m worried, then._

It did feel like a great weight that had burdened him for two years was now removed, yet the weight hit the glassy surface of water, and water splashed.

Turukáno knew those words had been hovering at the tip of Itarillë’s tongue for two years. And for two years he had encouraged and discouraged nothing, while expecting and dreading everything. He had wished a tentative thought would just be a thought, and a rippling sentiment remain a sentiment.

They did not. They grew steadily into love, nourished by whatever Fate that saw fit to join the lives and souls of Itarillë and Tuor.

Love was joy and love had merits, and Turukáno had no mind in denying the bliss of love; yet what the love of Itarillë and Tuor might bring about did cast Turukáno in no small measure of concern.

Not in the way that Turukáno had any indisposition with his daughter’s choice of husband, no. He had come to like Tuor, the young mortal whom Vala Ulmo had chosen as envoy to deliver the Water Lord’s message. For Tuor was in every way an amicable lad, faithful, kind, diligent and clever. Turukáno had taken it upon himself to show him the ways of the folks of Ondolindë, to teach him the arts that Elves practiced here, and to introduce him to his court where the young Atan would have an equal say among the King’s counselors.

No, the problem laid not there. It lay in the fact that Itarillë’s chosen love was a mortal; or rather, Itarillë was not mortal.

“You understand what that... difference imply, child?” asked Turukáno in his measured tone and phrasing. He didn’t want she think he was disapproving, or meddling.

“It doesn’t imply, father. It shows a clear image, and I see it. Yes, Tuor will die, as all his kindred does,” came his daughter’s reply, calm and steady, in a tone that was as clear as the image in her mind must be.

 _And you will not..._ Turukáno’s thought was not as calm or collected. Nor could that be said of the voice in which he raised the question he thought he had to put forward in words. “Are you prepared for his fate, then? And yours?”

“I understand what worries you. Yes... and no.” Itarillë’s answer came softly, “How I will carry on after his fate calls him, I am not entirely sure. But if I am true to myself, I’d say, even if I manage to put my heart’s yearning for this love aside, so as to ease your worry, I will still suffer the same way you worry I shall suffer in widowhood.”

Turukáno swallowed. He had seen that coming, and he had no answer to that. Not yet.

“And I can tell what widowhood must feel like, seeing you,” Itarillë continued, leaning forward to reach his ringed hand. She took it up, palm upwards, and landed a soft kiss there, before closing his thumb and fingers around her own. “You miss my mother. Very much. You hate the fact that she is separated from you. You even blame yourself for not being able to save her life. You dream of her, all the time. Though you do not talk of your dreams. And at times, when you are here, even standing in a crowd, your mind is lost, for a while, to be with her memory. You regret her loss. You mourn her departure. But you never regret loving her, never for a split moment, and never will. Your love for my mother is _that_ strong.

“You never talk to me about it, though. You tried to miss her only when I was not looking. You wanted me, and still want me, to grow happy and live happy. A life without the sense of loss that you feel looming everywhere. Yet if you thought I didn’t notice how you actually feel, you are wrong. The bond between you and me is strong. Whenever you are missing my mother, I feel it. What grief and regret you are living with, they touch me as intensely as they touch you. As well as the fear of living an eternity without the company of your beloved, who was, and still is, so much a part of your life. Should I wed the son of Huor, separation and loneliness will become a certainty to my life, one situation that you wish to spare me.

“But... Father, if you use that as a reason to call a halt to my feelings, my desire, your warning comes too late. Love for Tuor has found its way to my soul, and now I can not live without it.”

And Turukáno believed her. Every word, so eloquently and earnestly brought forth, was gaining a weight in his heart; even if her words did not move him, her gaze was the impact enough. It spoke of a determination and a confidence so powerful and so right that he could not say nay to. Besides, he had never thought to call a halt to her feelings, in the first place. He was just worrying: he didn’t want her to suffer, least of all to lose her to her suffering.

Now Turukáno sighed.

He didn’t mean to startle Itarillë. And she was not startled.

_Follow your heart’s wish, then. Follow the path where love joins you and guides you. You have my blessing, Itarillë. You and Tuor._

And that sweet daughter of his took a step forward and lifted herself onto her toes. She brushed her lips against his both cheeks before settling for a long, deep kiss into one of them, and he felt the words _Thank you_ spelt in the osanwë they shared in their minds.

He returned the favour by kissing her on the forehead, while sending the message _You are welcome. Congratulations!_ to her mind. When they parted from the embrace, both smiled, father and daughter. Her smile was such a beautiful thing to behold.

For one split second, he wondered if it had been Tuor who had come to him for a marriage permission, what his answer would have been. Something similar to what Maeglin got some eighty years ago? He hastily bit back this thought of his before it travelled too fast and too far, but added _And celebration is in order_ to the mind correspondence with Itarillë.


	12. 503 F. A.

His heart skipped a beat as his daughter tucked her babe boy in his arms.

He knew it would be his turn to hold the child, as soon as Itarillë deemed Tuor had had enough time and fun with his new-born son for the hour. Yet Turukáno was not prepared for this. And whether this included the texture of babe skin, the squirm of babe torso, the kicks of the babe limbs, or the tug of babe osanwë that had enhanced hundredfold since the child’s delivery, he was not entirely sure. Perhaps it was simply that he had not held a child like this for a while too long.

For years... decades... centuries, Itarillë had taken solely upon herself to visit the households where a new life was added to the family, to deliver congratulations on behalf of the King,to give royal blessings to the child, and to gift the new-born a babe gown that she had sewn and embroidered. Every new-born elfling had spent a few minutes in the high Lady’s bosom, and had very much enjoyed their snug stay there. When they reached the age to be set loose in the city streets, it was Itarillë they often flocked around, provided she was also wandering on the street. Itarillë often treated the younglings a rub in the face or a flip in the air; she was that fond of young children.

Itarillë had also taken upon herself to visit the youths who lost their fathers in the nightmarish war that the world called Nirnaeth Arnoediad. She had sat with them in silence, mourned with them, and perhaps spoken with them the words Turukáno found unable to get out of his throat. The young elves had trusted her with as much as they could, and she had shared with them as much as she could offer. The King had not raised a word about the recent exchanges between his daughter and those she visited, nor had Itarillë brought them up to her father. It had been a kindness not to stroke the sense of bereavement, even in caress, when bereavement was felt a tad too keenly.

Not one single child had been born to Ondolindë since Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The ghost of the war had seemed to follow Turukáno’s surviving troops from the other side of the Pass of Sirion and stayed, even if the enemies did not.

Until last year, when a child was conceived.

Until this morning when a child was born.

Ardamirë, the child’s mother had so named him. The Jewel of Arda.

_That he definitely is. And the jewel of Ondolindë, as well. The jewel of my House, most brilliant and most precious. No less._

Brilliant indeed was the babe. His skin was as fair as a snow-crowned crest caught in golden beams of the sun, and his fluffy hair, only slightly curly, kept kissing the curves of his brows and temples ever so tenderly. There was a hint of pink in his glowing cheeks, and his lips were as soft and firm as they were rosy. The fingers that he was sucking alternately were slender for a babe, and his little torso fleshy and chubby. The boy’s eyes were large, crystal-clear, and his irises caught a shade bluer than sapphire, and both Turukáno and Tuor found the colour beyond their capability of description and had consented to leave the task for future bards.

Little Eärendil, as Tuor called him, was long past wailing, yet he was not yet so spent as to surrender himself to a slumber. The child chose to observe instead, and the first object that caught the babe’s attention was the two strands of ebony hair that fell loose before the King’s chest, and soon enough, Turukáno’s tresses went wet and sticky by several inches. Eärendil obviously had convinced himself that a rich amount of drool was a perfect greeting gift for his grandfather.

And Turukáno found himself convinced as well. He smiled.

Deja vu caught him as soon as that smile graced his mouth, where his mind time-travelled to the last carefree days of his, when he was newly blessed with Itarillë. He remembered how he had marvelled at the exquisite yet familiar features of the babe, who had been clasped in in the safety of Elenwë’s arms, ever so thirsty. He had loved seating himself on the floor close by the mother and daughter, plucking at his harp idly to the rhythm to the girl’s tiny sucking sound. _Does she remember all this, after so many years?_

He noticed that Eärendil, obviously bathed and dried, was not yet clad in the blue and white of his father’s House. Itarillë looked as though she had desired her son to be dressed in no clothing other than nature when only family were around. She did not respond to the question that Turukáno had raised to himself, but he had found the answer anyway.

But children grew fast, which Turukáno knew. _Within ten years he will be as tall as the stool over there, and in twenty, perhaps the back of my throne, and in thirty, probably my shoulder or somewhere, when I am standing... and that reckoning is only good if he grows as fast as my kindred do. If he takes up the mortal growth speed, perhaps I shall ask Tuor... No, don’t ask Tuor; he is not going to be helpful here..._

_But Eärendil will surely be on his heels when he is past his sixth month, and be able to send his love to Itarillë and Tuor by those endearing Atto’s and Ammë’s when he’s nine or ten months old. The little adventures with staircases will soon follow. He will read, and sing, and dance, and ride a pony, in three years or four. He will chase everyone around with his infinite questions, servant or squire or seamstress or lord of great Houses making no difference to him. He will pick a name for himself within eight years or nine..._

_Children grow fast indeed._

And Turukáno set up his mind to remember this day for Eärendil, for the child would not retain much memory of his first day. He wanted, almost with an urgent need, to see the child grow in the seclusion, safety and prosperity of Ondolindë, surrounded by children of his age, till he reach his adulthood and the proper age to receive a lordship and establish a House of his own...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mental estimation of Eärendil's growth rate by Turgon is very roughly based on the information given by Laws and Customs among the Elder published in HoME 10. The general idea is average Elvish physical growth is slower than that of men but Elvish mental and intellectual growth is much more rapid, and I take the liberty to fill in numbers that I think possible. (And by the way, I don't think Eärendil, as half-elven, follows the Eldarin growth rate.)


	13. 510 F. A.

The attack on Ondolindë took place as soon as it was long anticipated.

 _The Enemy is good at picking a date to fight._  Turukáno wryly commented.

It was a night and day for celebration. Or so it had been. All the folk had been gathered one the seven walls of the City, or the east-facing terraces and balconies that had been picked up and adorned for gathering and merrymaking. In the ritual of silence they stood, waiting for the first ray of sunshine that would break the day, for the very instant to raise their beautiful voice first among the choir, to light the first lamp in the new-leaved trees, to sound their first note on their flutes and sweep their fingers over harp strings. As they would usually do when the Gates of Summer dawned.

Celebration was denied them when the horizons lit up hours too early, not in the brilliant hues of gold, orange and rose, but in a hellish burst of scarlet and grim brown, from all the grounds surrounding the Vale of Tumladen.

Only those truly young - the three-year-olds and four-year-olds - cheered at the sight, too eager for the fête under daylight to believe in any other occurrences. Their rhythmless claps and hurrays were very scanty, and died out as quickly as they were raised into a hush of foreboding. Even Eärendil, who had been looking into the East astride Tuor’s shoulders with all the anxiety a seven-year-old possessed, dropped his head and covered his eyes when the alien flare showed up.

But Turukáno, in his impeccable white ceremonial robes and shiny ruby coronet, did not drop his head or turn aside from the sight. No steel was weighing at his girth, for it was not his wont to wear a sword when he did not feel its indispensible need. Now he locked his eyes on the closest site of the offending red; nothing was writ in his face that he was thinking, and dreading, of.

For a moment, his mind travelled back to another land, another time for divine celebration, where everything went wrong and deadly darkness took the place of the graceful mingling of golden and silver. Many hearts had fallen sway to horror and distrust back then, and news of murder and theft had ensued, which had led to rebellion, robbery, slaughter, betrayal… and doom.

_Why do ill things always fall on us when we are most relaxed, most vulnerable?_

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

Many among his high lords appeared to believe it to Ondolindë’s utter advantage to defeat and destroy Moringotto’s minions before they neared and infringed the City. Turukáno thought otherwise, where it seemed only Maeglin and Salakanto concurred. The King wanted his force gathered and concentrated at sites of topographical advantages. From the height of city walls and defense of battlements, no less. He had seen, with his own eyes, what devastations could descend on scattered troops on a defenseless field. He had no desire to witness such failure twice, and the second time so close to home.

In regal outfit Turukáno saw to the festive people on walls and gates evacuated to their lodgings or other roofed shelters, till only soldiers and battle commanders were left in open space, forming their battalions and marching to the outer posts the City. Only then did he repair to his own armory to don his battle gears. All the way to and from his choice site for lookout, Turukáno fancied he heard clanks of metal and cracks of fire. He could almost feel the splash of blood from a cut, the dull wobbles from a pounding, and the sharp pang from a burn. Phantom pains from the last war. This time, under his deployment and command, his people would have no cause to suffer from these pains. Not on his ground.

The City of Ondolindë was, in and of itself, their defense, their hope, their haven.

_This is why Ondolindë was raised upon this site, with such design, in the first place._

Now Turukáno rearranged the city defense as more fighting men reemerged with helms covering their heads and plates and mailshirts on their back. Numerous blades and arrowheads flashed alarmingly blue. The few lords who were not yet assigned their post remained and argued with the King’s disposition. Turukáno saw the merits in their strategies, yet he stood steadfast to his original plan. He could not afford any adventurous moves that might affect the manning of the watch on the City.

_Ondolindë is not just a city and stronghold. It is one of the only two places on this Arda that I would gladly call home. Nay, it is even more than that. While Tirion is the city I was born into, Ondolindë is the destination that I have created for myself, my family and my people, to reside in, to watch over, to care for, and to cherish forever._

_I cannot honestly say the answer and be sure of it if I am asked whether I can ever remain in one home without missing the other. But what I now face is not a question, not a choice. One home is closed to me in this life of mine, ever since I made my last grave choice, when I was truly given the alternative to return to Tirion. But the past is in the past. Seven ship wreckages have seen to it._

_Now Ondolindë is the only home I can cling to and love, one place in which my people can seek shelter and find safety, after the long concealed Nargothrond was reduced to an abandoned hoarding place of dragon, and the impenetrable Doriath fell victim to the greed for a piece of shining Jewel, not once but twice. No, as long as I stand here and reign, Ondolindë must not falter and fall._

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

Yet the Foe most accursed took Turukáno at surprise there.

No, surprise was such a gross understatement that it would cause him to snort in dry, sarcastic, mirthless laughter afterwards. _Should there be an afterwards for me._

For the moment, the King could only gape, with a sense of hollowness clutching at his heart, (and it had to be hollowness, for even the desperate words like “dread” and “horror” could not rightly nail his feelings then and there,) at the scene of the gigantic, clanking structures of loosely joint metal pieces ascending the steep hill as though that were but a furrow of mud, and encroached and crashed a high, solid, perpendicular city wall, as though it were a leaf of parchment.

In no time orcs, balrogs and other hideous and malicious beasts poured into the City. His City. Trees uprooted. Flowers of late spring withered. Roofs cracked. Pillars splintered. Floors blasted. Conflagrations howled, engulfing streets and houses and plazas alike, and what did not catch fire either rotted or boiled. And the people, his people, were cast in such wild chaos and peril and ruin that he could not manage to relieve them of, or tell them how to escape…

Escape… that was not even an option. There was only one path of escape, which led to the other side of the Encircling Mountains, that Turukáno had knowledge of. And Turukáno was not so naïve as to expect it not blocked off or watched when enemies were besieging them so thoroughly, closing in at every split instant.

His armies were failing. They were retreated to the City, gaining what short rest as they could find, and being replenished at every passing moment, yet even so, they could not keep the foes at bay; that much was clear. Tuilindo, Rōka, Pendelot, and his own guards… Too many had fallen. To whips of fire, to serpents of flame, to everything fiery and ferocious…

And Ektelion…Turukáno had felt a breath of rejoice when he noted, from a distance, that Gothmog, fell Lord of Balrogs and murderer of his valiant brother, was eventually brought to its due end after all the monstrous crimes and slaughters that fiery beast had wrought. The breath stopped in the middle of his chest when he found the Lord of Fountain sank and drowned, the last trail of the faithful warrior’s weary fëa lost from the King’s perception.

Turukáno had never found his hope so dim… since the start of this Age.

He had witnessed Ondolindë raised from rock and mud, had seen it stand in splendor under the Moon and the Sun, white as sheen; and now… if the Enemy saw fit to coerce him into watching the city fall and collapse with his own eyes… and mourning the graceful Elven buildings that stood erect stubbornly in the shape of ghastly debris, now smoke-grey, now flame-red, now smog-brown, now coal-black... Turukáno would at least will himself to meet this end, this doom, with dignity and grace.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

Turukáno never had the heart to sought what brought the doom, so suddenly and thoroughly, upon his fair city and brave people. Even so, when the answer was presented to him – no, before the answer was presented to him, no matter what it was – he knew he was not going to like it.

_Maeglin…_

Turukáno never saw the perversion and cunning of his shy, sullen nephew could mount to such a treacherous extent, and if he had caught a glimpse or two of the unsociable lad’s discontent or desire, he had convinced himself, time and again, that they were long subdued. For indeed, Maeglin had even tried to be less withdrawn and shown himself in various feasts and events of gaiety, instead of locking himself up with hammers, anvils and forge-fire; and like many others, Turukáno had believed him truly softened and had encouraged him with affable smiles and delightful words. But despite that much progress, Maeglin had never opened up to him as much as Irissë always had, and Itarillë and Eärendil always did. Try as he might, Turukáno could only reach the fringe of the restlessness held in the Lord of Mole’s closeted fëa.

And at the same time, a disquiet sprouted in the heart of the King’s beloved daughter, and the fair Itarillë had set herself to a close watch over her babe son Eärendil, getting herself anxious beyond reason whenever she was separated from him for a longish period. All these matters confused Turukáno greatly, and he had taken upon himself to bring relief to the stress within both Maeglin and Itarillë; yet, sadly, Turukáno’s endeavours had come to no avail that he could perceive.

Not until this day did Turukáno eventually come to see why, when Maeglin exposed all his wild lust, dark hatred and despicable designs to all walks of people for the first time and the last. And only then did Turukáno fully apprehend how horribly Maeglin had wronged him, and everyone. Turukáno was struck with the clashing impact of Maeglin’s impatient greed and burning malice, and Itarillë’s steadfast resistance and desperate struggles, as if the two were wrestling each other violently right before his presence, even though there had been half a city between the King and the infighting cousins. Yet through the osanwë bond of kinship Turukáno immediately, and sharply, tasted the pains inflicted on Itarillë not from Maeglin’s coarse pull at her hair, but from the anguish she suffered at the presentiment of her young child murdered by abominable cruelty right before her eyes. Alone as she was, Itarillë fought like a tigress for the life her son and the freedom of herself, and little Eärendil, the golden grandson of Turukáno, countered and cumbered the sinister uncle of his with bravery in spite of fear.

And Turukáno felt his own heart torn, for he desired to fly to Itarillë’s aid, despite all the combatants awaiting his command, all the defenseless women and children stowed in his halls that were looking up to him, and all the duties he bore on his shoulders as a King... For what hope could ever come to him if he was bereft of Itarillë and Eärendil, the last joy of his family?

The lapse of time could never go slower before Maeglin’s ill deeds were eventually thwarted… by Tuor. The last curses of the disgraced Lord of Mole were nothing sane or Elvish. From those darksome utterances was uncovered the truth of what grim, inescapable fear Maeglin had been consorting for the past six years, and now Turukáno learned his nephew had spent his last, overlong journey out of the city not just on mining. Moringotto’s hand behind this misadventure was verified, now; more than a tad too late. _How come I have fallen so neglectful as to overlook Moringotto’s touch, when I have seen it before and vowed myself not ever to forget?_

But now Itarillë and Eärendil were safe from immediate demise, though how long they could remain so, Turukáno could not tell. Nor did he have the heart to find out.

Until once again Tuor came to his heart’s rescue by informing him of another route for escape out of Ondolindë. A tunnel Itarillë had proposed and Tuor had overseen its construction, yet one that Turukáno had been denied knowledge of, till now. And I cannot fault them for keeping secret, seeing how astray I have gone in the past few years, clinging to the pleasing visions that were illusionary, instead of wise words that held truth. _But now I see, what I have wrought and what I have failed…_

This was really not a time for sentiments, when his City was cast in flame, and chaos, and ash, yet sentiments kept springing forth as water ceased to do so from his fountain, overcoming the King. He talked at length, bidding the young mortal to lead the remaining folk of Ondolindë out of peril into safety, though what safety in this sundering Beleriend could they find, Turukáno failed to envisage. Yet in Tuor and Eärendil he did see a Hope, one that no longer graced his own presence because he had turned it down in his own time.

For far too long have I chosen to believe what it seems easiest for me to bear, hearkening to sweet promises of peace and gaiety where darkness is belied. In my blind pursuits for a lasting and prosperous home city, I closed my ears to the warnings of Lord Ulmo who loves my people, not once but many times. Too often I have let my own misgivings and doubts hold sway to my judgments, and thus failed to serve the best interest of my people despite it being my utmost wish and principle.

Now, let those who hold greater wisdom in their heart, the very people who have not only heeded Lord Ulmo, but also been trying to remind me of his words, be the guide and chieftain of my people and have their lealt; let them have the Hope, the safety when there is time still for such; my city will no longer stand, after today, but nor shall the children of the Noldor be worsted for ever.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

The parting was sad indeed, for while great was his love for the White City with seven walls, seven gates and seven names, Turukáno held the lives of the lovely residents of Ondolindë in place of greater import. If it had been grievous for him already to notice how few had preserved from the collapses and conflagrations in the City, the sorrow he felt while learning so many now desired to remain with him till whatever bitter end took them all was tenfold more intense. It was a wasteness of life, Turukáno thought; yet the King’s faithful guards were as hard to persuade from staying with him as he himself had been to talk into joining the departing folk.

As the remaining lords of his court were charged the task of gathering the his people and leaving for the last path towards safety in a quick yet orderly pace, Turukáno climbed to the topmost pinnacle of that white tower that stood nigh his Palace. It saddened him not being able to bid proper farewell to his Itarillë and Eärendil, and not being able to learn of their fates till he fared to the Halls of Mandos. _But this is better than to learn of woeful tides concerning my fair, brave children, while being totally unable to exert myself and address their adversity._

There Turukáno took up his last stance, Glamdring unsheathed, a flash of blue accompanying his erect stature like a halo. And there, raising his voice like a horn blown among the mountains, the King of Ondolindë cried:

“Great is the victory of the Noldor!”

For now he believed in it, truly and full-heartedly. So long as the People of the Flower remain, no matter where they shall roam, then the Noldor are not defeated nor lost. And Turukáno was willing to offer whatever distraction and sacrifice to aid his people’s flight.

The King raised his blade, as his grandfather did in the pitch darkness of Formenos, as his father did on the threshold of Angamando. Dragons, balrogs and orcs, fell flames and cracks, they were all heading towards the towering figure on the pinnacle, who stood as still and determined as though he had become one with the sloping marble ground he stood. Until he charged.

For some mysterious reasons he caught visions of Itarillë and Tuor, resting on a shoreline Turukáno did not recognize; Tuor looked more weatherworn than Turukáno ever recognized, but also appeared content in the surrounding of the sea that he had loved so deeply. Then there were visions of Eärendil, no longer an artless child but a seasoned man tall and strong, standing upright and proud on a white deck with a dark-haired lady in his arm, against the background of another shoreline, one that Turukáno did recognize. Valinor. Now images were shifting faster in his mind’s eye, showing once again Itarillë and Tuor, then his mother, his grandmother, his uncle and many others, then his father and brothers and sister and cousins who were lost to battles, and the ones who had not yet fallen (and now he genuinely wished they could find themselves a better fate than his), and Elenwë, who looked as brilliant as he had first laid eyes on her, without any trace of sorrow and weariness touching her beauty…

And Turukáno smiled. For the first time since this doomed day began, he could actually feel the corners of lips lifted, and the furrows in his brow made level.

This was the moment of Turukáno’s end; somehow, to him, it didn’t feel so much like an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The narration of this chapter doesn't follow exactly the sequence of battle events in The Fall of Gondolin published in HoME 2. I'm sorry, but I couldn't help with that without breaking my own flow of writing.
> 
> And concerning Turgon's prophetic visions at the end of this chapter: I just wanna be good to him!
> 
> And once again, a big THANK YOU for your gracious reading, kudos and reviews!

**Author's Note:**

> A list of names:  
> Akaldamor -- Egalmoth, Lord of Heavenly Arch, of Gondolin  
> ammë, mama/mom, the intimate form of Amil (mother)  
> Anar, the sun  
> Angamando, Angband  
> Arakáno -- Argon, youngest son of Fingolfin  
> Ardamirë, mother-name of Eärendil  
> Atani (sing. atan), men  
> atto, papa/dad, the intimate form of Atar (father)  
> Curufinwë -- Curufin  
> Ektelion – Ecthelion, Lord of Fountain, of Gondolin  
> Endórë -- Middle-earth  
> fëa, soul  
> Fëanáro -- Fëanor  
> Findaráto -- Finrod  
> Findëkáno -- Fingon  
> Gar Thurion -- one of the other names of Gondolin, meaning the Secret Place  
> Hísilómë -- Hithlum  
> hröa, body  
> Irissë -- Aredhel  
> Itarillë -- Idril  
> Laurefindil -- Glorfindel  
> Lómion, mother-name of Maeglin  
> Moringotto -- Morgoth  
> Nelyafinwë -- Maedhros  
> Nolofinwë -- Fingolfin  
> Ondolindë -- Gondolin  
> Pendelot -- Penlod, Lord of Pillar and Lord of Tower of Snow, of Gondolin  
> Rōka -– Rog, Lord of Hammer of Wrath, of Gondolin  
> Salakanto -- Salgant[S], Lord of Harp, of Gondolin  
> Sorontar -- Thorondor  
> Tuilindo -– Duilin, Lord of Swallow  
> Turkafinwë -- Celegorm  
> Turukáno -- Turgon
> 
> The Quenya names of members of the House of Finwë are taken from the Shibboleth of Fëanor, while those of the Lords of Gondolin come from Parma Eldalamberon 13: The Alphabet of Rúmil & Early Noldorin Fragments.


End file.
